by Steven Poore
She glanced across at Attis. The moneylender had absented himself from the conversation completely, his head bent over his plate as he deliberately tore his bread into smaller chunks. Rann Almoul watched everything from the other end of the table, his composed features hiding his thoughts. His attempt to impress his guests was not going according to plan, Cassia thought. Something troubled him, that much was obvious. Something about Meredith and Baum, although it was impossible to see what that might be.
“Attis recommended you to me, sir, and I hope you have found my services to be beyond compare,” Rann Almoul said, leaning forward. “He also said that you wished to be entertained by a storyteller. I pride myself on my reputation as a good and decent host, but I confess I am intrigued by the nature of your requests. Now you are my guest, and you are eating at my table, perhaps you will explain what you wish of us.”
Rann Almoul’s cold tone appeared to have no effect on Baum’s demeanour. The old man only smiled and tilted one shoulder in a small shrug. Cassia sat very still, just as she would have done if her father had been raging before her, deep in his cups. It was the best way to remain unnoticed.
“I come to free you from the Hellean yoke,” Baum said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “To send the Factor and his tax collectors reeling back to the low plains. To bring power, wealth and independence to these lands once more. The North will rise again, Rann Almoul – and it will do so in your lifetime.”
There was silence. Cassia hardly dared to breathe.
“Well?” Baum said at last. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Almoul’s ruddy complexion had paled into a death-mask. He stared intently at the old man, while his bread hung limp and unheeded from his fingers. His sons took their cue from their father, though Hetch could not hide his clear-eyed shock. Only Meredith and Baum himself seemed unconcerned by the tone of the conversation.
“You dare to sit at my table and talk of sedition? Of rebellion?” Cassia had never heard Almoul so astounded. Or so angry. “And you dare to presume upon my desires! I will not be spoken to in such a manner!”
Not just anger, Cassia thought. Something else too. Rann Almoul’s list of Bad Things did not end with schools and foreign gods; he was also intolerant of dishonest traders, purse-snatchers, the indigent and the lazy, beggars, and workers who did not pull their own weight, amongst many other things that could affect his capacity to make a profit. The very idea of rebellion against the Empire that now called the North a province was guaranteed to bring his temper boiling forth.
Yet it was Hellea that leaned upon him continually as a source of revenue. Taxation. Subscriptions. Supplies for the legion, and coin for the festivals. Almoul had lost a son to the legion. He was still proud of Vescar and his achievements, Hetch had told Cassia once, but he resented the Empire for taking him in the first place.
No, not just anger. Agitation, and denial. Rann Almoul was like a child caught in a lie. She recognised it well. The man was caught on a stake between Hellea and the old North.
Baum dispelled the oncoming storm with a nonchalant gesture. “As you wish,” he said. “I was under the impression that you were your father’s son.”
“My father joined the legions,” Rann Almoul bit down upon every word. “He defended the Empire.”
“Against the Berdellan uprisings.” Baum nodded. “As did I, sir. And I knew your father. Oh, no need to look so surprised. I had my reasons then, as I have them now. In fact, although you have your storyteller here, let me give you a tale of my own.”
He chewed upon a crust of bread for a moment and the yard was silent. Even Cassia’s father could not have silenced an audience so effectively.
“I was a full commander of five hundred swords and spears,” Baum said at last. “It was a terrible land for infantry, with rolling, sandy plains, and soil barely worthy of the name. Nothing grew well, so we had to rely on our wagons, and the Berdellans wasted no opportunity to make life harder for us. They abandoned their towns and fired their fields, and drove their herds deep into the plains, where we could not reach them. They harried us from horseback, picking away at our flanks and raiding in force by night. They sought to wear us down and thin us out; for they would not meet us in the field.”
Cassia tried to recall her history. The Berdellan campaigns had been at least fifty years ago and, even if Baum had been young for his rank – say, thirty years old – it meant he must be over eighty now. He would certainly have been older than Rann Almoul’s father. She regarded him carefully as he paused to sip his wine, and wondered if he really could be that old.
“Now then,” Baum continued, gazing down into his cup, apparently oblivious to his host’s growing impatience. “Factor Grosculi, who was meant to be collecting these taxes that the Berdellans didn’t want to pay, was good at counting coins. But tactically he was clueless. He wanted to react to every attack, every provocation, despite the fact that we’d end up getting pulled out of position and one of our units would be left behind or trapped beyond the flanks. Easy pickings. The mood in the camp grew sour and mutinous. I needed some way to regain the initiative.
“I sent my best scouts deep into Berdellan territory, while we dug in and fortified our encampment as best we could. We had sent messengers to the other divisions of Grosculi’s legion, but we had no way of knowing whether they had been received safely. Eventually we were relieved, of course, but before that happened one of my scouts struck gold.” Baum gave Hetch a dazzling smile. “Quite literally, in fact.”
Hetch had forgotten his meal. “Gold?”
Of them all, only old Attis did not respond to the mention of riches. He had barely said a word since taking his seat. It was most unlike him, Cassia thought. She wondered if he was feeling ill.
“About six miles from our camp was an old, fortified mound occupied by a somewhat reclusive Berdellan force. We had not even known it was there. It was a good, defensible position that, if we could take it, would turn the fight in our favour and ease the pressure on the other divisions. My officers argued for moving in to besiege the hill, but I had a far more ambitious plan.
“As night fell, we moved camp, taking the wagons as close as we could to the hill without alerting their guards, and no doubt frustrating the raiders who had planned to attack us in the early hours. We pulled the wagons around in a circle and set fire to them. I left a third of my men there to raise a clamour with their swords and shields, and the defenders could not have missed it. Meanwhile, I approached the hill with the rest of my force, circling around to the far side. As the Berdellans watched the blaze and wondered at the sounds of battle, we scaled the walls and took them by surprise.
“At last they had no choice but to stand and fight. I will give them their due; they fought well. But they were unprepared, and they had sent a party out to investigate the burning wagons, weakening their own strength. The fighting was at close quarters, brutal and murderous. We had no objective other than to decisively beat them.
“They put up their most determined resistance in the great hall. Several of my best officers fell to knives and spears. The stones were treacherously slippery, coated with blood. My half-captain stumbled, hard pressed by one opponent, and he would have ended his days right there had I not engaged the man myself and cut his legs from under him.
“Only when this man fell did the Berdellans finally lose heart, for he was Gyre Carnus, the eldest son of their rebellious king. And now we realised, my half-captain and I, why this fort had been hidden away. This was the secret heart of the rebellion. While King Carnus had been forced to abandon his cities, he had enough foresight to build a network of small forts deep in the wild – forts that Grosculi knew nothing about. And secreted in this fort were the golden tributes and gemstones that Carnus had gone to such great pains to deny to Grosculi.”
Baum sat back, eyes half-lidded, looking around the table.
“This is all very well,” Rann Almoul observed. “But a long-dead prince an
d a chest of riches do not answer any of my questions.”
His tone was not threatening, but Meredith turned his head to watch him. Tarves, in turn, frowned at the young lordling and shifted on his seat. Cassia’s skin prickled with goosebumps, from nerves and fear as much as from the rapidly cooling evening.
Baum shrugged. “Indulge me a moment more,” he said, his own voice not quite as courteous as it had been. He turned and called over his shoulder. “Storyteller – do you know the tales of Berdella?”
For perhaps the first time ever, Norrow looked genuinely lost for words. He blinked and tugged at his tattered robe, glanced quickly across at Cassia, and took a hesitant step forward.
“A little, sir. But they are not well-known in these parts.”
“Understandably so.” Baum smiled. He must have caught Norrow’s sideward look, for he turned his gaze upon Cassia next. “And your apprentice?”
She shook her head, barely trusting her throat, which felt dry and constricted. “No – but—”
“She knows nothing—” Norrow started, but Baum raised one hand to silence him.
“But?” he prompted.
Cassia licked her lips. “But he didn’t. Grosculi. The gold – I mean.” She took a deep breath. “He brought back the taxes, but the treasures of King Carnus were lost. That’s what they said. At the school. I heard that once.”
“And they were right.” Baum nodded, and gestured to the table. “I would feel more comfortable if the pair of you weren’t hiding in the corners of the yard like that. Sit down.”
Rann glowered, but said nothing as Cassia timidly perched next to Hetch and Norrow settled for a cramped seat on the other side of Tarves. Meredith watched them with the same dry expression he had worn all evening.
“Now sir,” Rann said, his words dangerously clipped. “Explain yourself. Without these games. I will not be toyed with in this manner.”
“Gold and gems,” Baum said. “Perhaps enough to pay a whole legion until the end of the world. Grosculi did not need to know about it. It was ours to take. We left the fort burning, the Berdellan corpses heaped outside the gates. My men – those who lived – were paid well from the spoils, but there was still more than enough to make my half-captain and myself exceedingly rich. More than enough for us to implement our own secret ambitions.
“My half-captain was a radical-minded man, much like myself. He did not love the Empire. He viewed his position as a means to an end, and now he had that means, and much sooner than he had anticipated. He also owed me his life, and for that I asked him for a few small favours.”
The smile dropped from Baum’s lips. “Keskor can be at the heart of a great new Northern kingdom, just as you wish it to be. Just as Caenthell used to be. I can make that a reality. Make no mistake, the North will rise again. But you will need your own legions, to dissuade Hellea’s certain retaliation. Half-captain Attis still possesses the means to pay for them.”
Cassia gasped, staring at the moneylender in disbelief. Attis still hunched over his plate, his eyes haunted and distant.
It was hard enough to imagine the old man in the uniform of the Imperial legions, let alone picture him wielding a sword, struggling for his life in battle. But this had all taken place half a century ago. She could only see Attis as he was now.
She looked back up at Baum. He had returned his attention to his food, apparently oblivious to the waves of shock rippling across the table. There was no doubt that he, at least, was exactly what he claimed to be. And that only added more weight to what he had said of Attis.
“This is ridiculous,” Rann said, breaking the silence, but some of the conviction had left his voice.
Because it wasn’t all that far-fetched after all, Cassia thought. Everything was moving into place, like the pieces of a shattered plate. What better way to make quick money than to join the legions, even for a man opposed to Imperial rule? An officer’s wage, along with the pillage and robbery that was frequently shown a blind eye – a man could make a fortune. And Attis had.
“Is it?” Attis said, so softly even Cassia, sat next to him, scarcely heard him. He raised his head, straightened his back, a faint echo of a soldier’s posture. “Is it so ridiculous, Rann? Did you think my money grew on trees? And your father’s business too – why do you think he was so successful?”
Rann’s lips tightened. “My father never mentioned any of this—”
Attis shook his head. “Your father held a spear. He wasn’t paid to think. He marched and he fought as he was ordered. He set a torch to the wagons to help distract the Berdellans, and he was paid in gold to keep quiet about the things Grosculi did not need to know. He was a small man, Rann. He joined the legion to build his future. As did I.”
Attis sat back and folded his arms wearily. “And so you return again, for the oath you made me swear. I am too old for such games now, and Ceron Almoul is long dead.”
Baum shook his head. “I have lost track of the years. They are not so important. But the North is important, as are its people. Think of what you learned while you held your commission. Battlefield tactics, leadership skills, arms drills, teaching all those young men how to obey orders – how to fight.”
“How to die,” Attis muttered.
Baum ignored his remark and spoke to Rann instead. “With both Attis and your sons at your side, you will raise and train small companies of soldiers right across the region, right under the Factor’s nose. He has no reason to suspect any trouble here. Then all you have to do is wait for my word, or my signal.”
Rann frowned, sceptical as always, but Cassia could tell the idea had taken root in his mind. He and Tarves shared a silent look.
“What signal?” Rann asked. “Where will you be? Will you be using us as crude puppets?”
“My own part is just that, mine and mine alone,” Baum said curtly, before softening his tone. “It is safer – for you as well as for me – that you know nothing but your own part. But rest assured you will not mistake my signal when it comes. Nobody will miss it.”
Almoul’s barked laughter was unpleasant. “Will you resurrect Caenthell for us so we can rally at the High King’s feet? Do you think you are a sorcerer, or even a god?”
The hush that followed was tense and uncomfortable. Cassia stared down at the surface of the table to avoid drawing attention to herself. She should not be hearing this. She wished she had been able to stay out of the way, on the other side of the yard.
When she looked up, it was to find that none of the men at the table could meet Baum’s stern, determined gaze. There was stone in his eyes. They were as disconcerting as the half-twist upon his lips that might have passed – in full light – for a smile. And the lordling, Meredith – he chewed some morsel placidly, as though nothing was amiss. That was worse than Baum’s glare, somehow.
“I will require the locked casket that was left with Ceron Almoul,” Baum said, as the silence was threatening to become unbearable. “I trust you still possess it.”
Rann hesitated, and then nodded.
“Good. I will also require the sum of seventy-four silver bells. That was the amount promised, if I recall. And then there is the small matter of the storyteller.”
Cassia saw her father’s head jerk up. “What?”
“What of him?” Rann Almoul said.
“He will be traveling with Meredith and myself,” Baum said. “He will have his own part to play.”
Norrow’s eyes were wide with surprise and horror. “Me?”
“Hah! You’re welcome to him,” Rann said. “His tongue is glib enough, but he’s a sot and a fool. We’ll not miss him.”
“No, wait,” Norrow said quickly. “I don’t understand any of this. You say you have a part for me in this scheme?”
Baum nodded.
“As a storyteller?”
Another nod, and now a smile spread across Norrow’s face. Cassia caught her breath. She knew that smile. Her father was casting his own plots, seeking out ways to take advanta
ge of the situation. Baum had mentioned a sum of money, and Norrow would inevitably angle for a share of that.
“If you need a storyteller, I’m your man,” he said. “My tales are famed across the entire North. Did you hear my recital tonight, back at the market? Of course, I have no love for the Empire either—”
Attis snorted. “No love to spare for any but yourself, you idiot. Perhaps Hellea will appreciate you. But what of Cassia? You will not need her.”
All eyes turned upon her. It was as if they had only just remembered her presence. She shrunk back.
Norrow’s smile widened further. “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose I will. Just another mouth to be fed. A dead weight. You may go, girl. I dismiss you.”
Cassia could not find words for what she felt. Just like that? Abandoned and dismissed in so few words? She felt bile rising in her throat – the sweetness of the fruit, lying unsettled in her stomach.
“Go? But . . . where?”
Norrow shrugged. He seemed unable to conceal his delight at being able to leave her behind at last. Then she saw him glance across at Attis, and there was a fresh glint of calculation behind his eyes. Calculation that turned to malice. “Never let it be said I do not pay my debts,” he said. “Rann?”
Rann Almoul regarded him with distaste before turning his attention to her. After a long moment, during which she felt she was weighed and prodded like a bird bound for the pot, he nodded and extended his hand down the table. Norrow reached up to clasp it.
“Done, and done,” Almoul said.
It had all happened too quickly for Cassia to comprehend. Realisation dawned as her father sat back with a self-satisfied smile. Anger burned through the numbing shock.
“You . . . sold me?”
She looked around the table at them all. Meredith, as disinterested as his companion was attentive; Attis, flat-faced and disgusted; Tarves, merely amused; her own father, raising a cup of wine in triumph. And Hetch, his expression mirroring that of Rann Almoul.
“Look, it’s all for the best, Cassia,” Hetch said, leaning forward. He touched the back of her hand. A firm, warm touch. “Don’t you see? We’ll look after you. You can work for Ma as a maid.”
